


The Sound Of Silence

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Developing Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guilt, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: They all knew she had nightmares. Why wouldn't she? But Clint's the only one who isn't afraid of her, so he tries to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seductiveturnip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seductiveturnip/gifts).



> This was inspired by **In The Quiet** by seductiveturnip, who I've also gifted it to. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I can only hope that this is as half as good as the reason I wrote it.

Wanda never screamed when she had bad dreams. She would sweat through her sheets, and once she chewed a hole in her pillowcase while she slept, but she barely made a peep. It was as if she thought the things she had nightmares about would find her if she made noise. 

But Clint knew. Even without seeing the dark circles under her eyes, how unrested she looked in the mornings, Clint would just look at her and know. He was no stranger to night terrors himself, although they'd largely faded since Loki had used mind control to turn him into a puppet. But he believed that Wanda's dreams were filled with more....human torments. He'd seen some of what she'd been through, but not all of it.

He'd tried to draw her out, make conversation with her. She'd become the newest Avenger, and he'd tried to be welcoming, mostly because the others didn't really know how to react to her. They saw her as a reminder of what she'd done inside their heads, and while Clint respected that, he couldn't get his mind around leaving her to flounder. Especially without her brother. She never talked about him, either. But the archer was not a fool.

He was passing her room one night, on his way downstairs for something to eat. He'd taken to spending more time at the compound, ostensibly because he wanted more weapons practice, but it was actually because he felt more at home here than anywhere else. Clint's feet were bare, and he made soft noises on the hardwood floor as he walked. When he had taken a step and a half past the door of the room Tony had let Wanda have, he heard a watery gasp, then a muffled moan. He waited, listening to the silence around him, his own heartbeat on top of that. There was a thin strip of light at the bottom of the door. Clint pushed his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end.

If he checked and she was awake, she'd think he was intruding. Wanda was prickly and borderline aggressive, still a little feral from all those years of scrounging and going hungry. If he _didn't_ check....if he didn't check, he wouldn't be holding up his end of the bargain he'd made after the mess with Ultron died down. He wouldn't be keeping his promise.

The door open with the barest noise, and the lamp on the bedside table was on. Wanda was curled up into a tight ball on top of the covers, as if she were trying to make herself as small as possible. A knot of tension setting up shop in his gut, Clint stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He felt as if he should wake her up, rouse her from whatever horror she was reliving in her sleep. She just looked so damn _tiny_ on the big bed.

The archer found a chair, carried it to the side of the bed and lowered himself into it. He would sit here for a while, keep watch. That was what he did, right? They didn't call him Hawkeye for nothing. He looked at the taut line of Wanda''s back, considered how much he knew. Sokovia, the bombings, HYDRA, Strucker, Ultron. How much _didn't_ he know? A lot, probably. 

She made another stifled noise in her sleep, and Clint very slowly and carefully reached out and put a callused hand on the small of Wanda's back. Just on her back, and just enough pressure that it might register. She was wearing blue cotton pajamas, and she seemed simultaneously too young and too old. 

_I wish I could take it away. Even one thing would be enough._

Guilty thoughts from his guilty heart, because he wanted to soak up her pain like a sponge, relieve her of it, and he couldn't. Not really. Her brother was dead and Clint was alive, and he wondered if, in some dark corner of her wounded psyche, she hated him for it. His fingers splayed wider, spreading out over the base of her spine. The tight ball she was in had relaxed very slightly, become less fetal. The archer supposed - hoped - that Wanda had gone into a deeper level of slumber, where the dreams couldn't reach her. He didn't flatter himself into believing he'd been the cause of it.

The bed sagged when he sat down on the edge of it, then sagged farther as he lay down next to her by gradual increments. He was still fully clothed except for his shoes. Beside him, Wanda was quiet, but it was a fraught sort of quiet, with God-only-knew-what beneath the surface. Clint touched her shoulder for a second, then took his hand back.

He wasn't fooling himself into thinking he could 'cure' her. He was not a man who deluded himself, imagining he was a miracle worker. He wasn't even sure he could help her at all. Psychological scars ran deep, and they weren't visible. But he wasn't afraid of her the way the others were, didn't see her as a monster. And so....he would try.

In silence, he would try.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have read my other Clint/Wanda stories, you may consider this a prequel if you would like. :-)


End file.
